


Flowers

by Seo81



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Depression, Fluff, Language of Flowers, M/M, Multi, Soulmate-Identifying Marks
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-20
Updated: 2017-01-07
Packaged: 2018-09-09 23:35:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,960
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8917621
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Seo81/pseuds/Seo81
Summary: Going into the soul mate mark cliche. Actual flower mark with possibilities of either multiple soulmates or none at all. There are always possibilities for platonic or non platonic relationships. I’m going with the flower mark AU.
I'll try and get most of the flower meanings right, but I'll need help.
Beta needed (aka sos please)
p.s: sorry for the ridiculously generic title





	1. Phlox, Camellia, Feverfew, Hydrangea

 

It’s a long and trying labor, but a tiny babe with shining silver hair opens their mouth to take their first quiet breath.

Viktor is born with a bright blue-purple blaze of irises around his left his left collarbone, sitting directly above his heart. They trail from his sternum to the tips of his triceps, and curl gently around his pectoral, there leaves are pale in contrast, but drape sweetly around where his heart would be.

The fluorescent yellow center demands attention, commands it even.

It’s the flower of kings: the flower of grace, steadiness, and faithfulness.

He knows that he’s going to have a romantic relationship from the day that he looks in a mirror and asks inquisitively at the bright blooms scrawling across his chest. His mother, a weathered, wizened women burdened with the excited cries of his siblings takes her time to quietly explain each and every unfurling bloom, using a gentle aging florist’s hand to point out details in the mirror.

“Your soulmate is going to be beautiful Victor.”

She says it with a quiet confidence, prodding at the small, tightly furled bud with a tender smile.

“You just have to wait for them.”

The bud is a peony bud, pure white petals yet to be imprinted with color.

It will bloom to be the king of the flowers.

 

Years later, her words stay with him, but she herself does not.

 

* * *

 

It is an easy birth, the babe is high near crawling out of the womb in their eagerness to join the world. They are healthy, a large pair of lungs announcing their arrival in seconds.

Yuuri is born with with a spray of peony flowers across his back, bulbous white blooms,a pure white with verdant shining leaves. They trail boldly across his shoulder blades and stretch from his left tricep to the hollow of the small of his back. They almost outshine the small cluster of bright blue irises surrounding the peonies, clustered around the tall stem of the peony as if to embrace them with their leaves.

“He’s healthy”, one relieved doctor confides to the exhausted mother, “Your son will be loved”.

The thick cluster of hydrangea and phlox curling around her left elbow seem to giggle, flowers gently rustling in repeating motions. Her husband confides in her with a quiet smile, and gently bumps his right elbow against her left arm.

Yuuri wiggles, tiny face scrunching into a vision of grumpy impatience and the petals of his mark thrash in a invisible wild wind. It’s with a quiet shiver that the irises seem to nudge the thick peony stems and still their tremulous movement into gentle swaying.

He smiles.

* * *

 

Thousands of miles away, a young silver-haired boy jumps in surprise after an itching sensation comes and passes on his chest. He scrabbles at the thick woolen fabric of his coat and resorts to shucking the garment off in favor of watching the whitish bundle of petals unfold hairs-width by haris-width. They spread into a fluffy-looking mass of feather-soft petals that shiver violently.

He gives an absolutely ecstatic shout of joy, thoroughly startling the seagulls that waft along the changeable sea winds along the ocean shore. His father shouts at him to put on his coat so he wouldn’t catch an early death before catching sight of the slowly unfurling petals. He turns away as to not intrude on this private moment, his own humble patch of camellias sits next to a yellowing hand-full of feverfew.

 

 


	2. Passion Flowers, Ivy, Mint, Holly and Thyme-oh my!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mari is annoyed, Victor is a little shit growing into an older shit, Yakov is tearing at his hair, Yuuko is just introduced, and Minako is known as the drunk lady that rampages through Yutopia. Yuuri is just a growing poopy little potato.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry for the late update, but It's way longer than the first chapter, so there!   
> Also, I really, Really, REALLY need a beta. I think I'm mildly dyslexic if the way that I read a sign that said: "Hu-nan Wok" as: "Human Wok" is any indication. That, or it may just be my spelling.
> 
> Also, there's an Amino app for Yuri on ice, follow me @Willenheim-victorious on the app for little hints for the next chapter's plot and fan-art that I've drawn.
> 
> Cheers! Enjoy the next chapter :D

It’s been more than half a year since he’s gotten any sort of indication that his soulmate even exists, and he’s going absolutely  _ mad. _ Sue him. He’s four years old and utterly done with the shit that his siblings raise with him when he babbles about how pretty his mark is.

“Mama said it’ll make me a king!”

He’s shown his mark to absolutely anyone that will oblige him, stripping his shirt off at a moment's notice. His mother is forever yelling at him to put his shirt back on though, apologising to the group of giggling young school girls that he’d begun to take off his shirt for.

But mama had gone somewhere that perpetually smelled like cleaning agent and the fake sugary lollipops offered in lobbies, and has left Milos and Alexei to temper their father’s taste for bitter alcohol.

It’s always: “Victor, hush!”, or: “Victor, be quiet!” now. Not a scrap of music in the large red townhouse besides the creaking of rusting pipes and ungreased stairs, and even those disappear as his father continues to complain. Sharp reprimands with a bittered tongue and smoke-stained teeth don’t dare touch Victor though-golden (or in this case, silver) child he is with his mother’s silvery hair and piercing blue eyes.

Milos and Alexei aren’t quite so lucky, inheriting their father’s hooked nose and thick eyebrows that make them all look like trolls from the forest. 

Victor nudges his mark, anything to make the unmoving petals have some sort of r _ eaction _ . He pokes at it, softly touching the iris petals before pinching the skin where the white flower is.

_ That gets a response _ .

The white flower is now shaking slightly, and Victor pokes at the slightly reddened skin before pinching the same spot again.

It shakes even more.

It’s fun to watch the white flower sway around, knocking the bluish blooms in an effort to get away from the stinging sensation they must be feeling from the pinches. He continues this until there’s a sharp smacking feeling against his chest.

Ah, he’s been too forceful then, he’ll have to apologize to his soulmate when he meets them then.

The white bloom stills, free of the constant torment, looking serene in between the cluster of blue and yellow flowers...rather boring if Victor would say so….

Oh well, they wouldn’t really mind would they?

One more pinch for good luck!

 

* * *

 

The first time Yuuri is actually coherent enough to vocalise the strange sensations on the his back, he wails. Loudly.

His parents had originally thought Yuuri to be over the insane period of time where sleep came in short fits and starts of 4 hours or less depending on whether or not Yuuri had consumed peas or carrots the meal prior to sleeping.

Hearing the insistent squalling cries of the tiny toddler, the warmth of the thick covers of the futon quickly leave Mari’s skin in the small drafts across the traditionally boarded house as she cautiously creeps towards the wide cage-like crib. 

She has to restrain a snort at the position she finds her little brother in.

“Already working on that dancing career aren’t you?”

Yuuri is in a clear split, chest pressed flat to the ground and discomfort clear on his rapidly reddening face with sticky spit bubbles trailing down his chin. His eye cracks open under the small mass of fluffy black hair and nails her with a particularly impressive display of grumpiness for his tender age. He maintains eye-contact with Mari for another half a second or so before pushing off of his split position and quickly rolling onto his back. There are a strange series of motions that all involve her little brother looking like a helpless turtle, rolling around on the curve of it’s shell.

Mari has to observe what her little brother is attempting to do for several seconds before realizing that Yuuri’s fruitless attempts to itch his own back are liable to cause an even larger ruckus. 

She stirs in her own amusement for a few seconds and then intervenes, rolling Yuuri onto his front while bunching up the fabric hiding his back towards his shoulders.

There!

Even in the dim light, Mari can see the semi-closed white bloom shaking from the violent swaying of the surrounding blue flowers. The entire mark is just small enough for her to cover with her entire hand. She curls her hand, prepared to itch her brother’s back before reconsidering her decision in case her nails injured the already irritated looking skin. It’s with a sort of misjudgement and stored vehemence against continuous nights without sleep that causes her to slowly raise her hand….and slap the skin with an audible “smack!”.

The reaction is immediate. Yuuri shrieks, entire face morphing into one of protest as he pushes off of his chest and squalls loud enough for their parents to run into the room in alarm. They quickly pick up her younger brother and murmur half-coherent sweet phrases to calm his sniffling.

He quiets down quickly...very quickly. A tiny shift of his body has him peeking at Mari through the cage of their parent’s arms, mouth almost cocked in a tiny smirk.

_ The little shiiiiiiiit. _

Mari sends her brother a stink-eye before creeping out of the room and leaving her parents to deal with her pooping-potato of a little brother. See how they like dealing with his projectile vomit after a repeatedly lifting him up and down to calm him down.

.

.

.

.

 

Looking at the pretty marks of his flowers is a little bit of a struggle for Yuuri’s small, pudgy body. It’s partially hidden by a layer of nappies and almost always covered by the baggy chicken kigurumi passed down from his sister’s teething days. 

The only times that Yuuri is actually able to see the colorful blooms on his back are when his parents take pity on him and take a photograph, and even then, the pictures take several days to develop and retrieve from the local photography shop in Hasetsu. 

Even so, the pictures show a great, bulbous white bloom surrounded by the eye-catching iris flowers around them. Personally, Yuuri likes the smaller blue blooms with the yellow centers-they definitely have more of a personality than the blank white petals spread a few inches higher than his tailbone.

Yuuko, a slightly older girl he had met had always exclaimed that ballet and ice-skating had allowed her to be flexible enough to look at the purple-white spread of passion flowers and vibrant ivy snaking across the back of her thigh. He might have to take up her repeated offers to join her just to be able to take a peek of his mark without repeatedly requiring the aide of his parents. 

There’s also the issue with the graceful lady that always dances in the lobby of Yutopia when drunk-Minako, she was known by. If anything, she probably owes his mother more than a few apologies for the mount of sake she’s sprayed on the walls by pirouetting while holding the sake bottle, singing off-key about sprigs of mint, holly and thyme printed neatly down her calves. Yuuri has seen her break into spontaneous splits across the tables and against walls without yelling in pain and bend like a pipe-cleaner into a plethora of painful looking positions, so she can definitely teach him something-even if it may take some... _ convincing _ .

Meanwhile, Yuuri will just concentrate on facing away from a mirror and turning his head around to peak at the flowers on his back, eyes glued to the scattering of irises wiggling across his back.

.

.

.

* * *

It’s a palpable struggle to continue skating at times. The pearl-white petals on his chest tremble so violently at times that he just wants to tear open the turtle-necked skating costumes he’s been wearing for the past season for both his free and short programs. 

They always seem to shake most vigorously just during the brief period where he first skates to the center of the rink to start his program. It’s almost like a good-luck charm,  double-edged in the way that it signified that somewhere in the world, his soulmate was watching him but annoying in the constant phantom itch.

Victor grins, slightly too wide to be a photogenic photo, hiding it by ducking his head for a quick breath before flipping his slowly lengthening hair. In a show of playful attitude, he blows a brief kiss to the ecstatic crowd and raises his arms to make a sweeping inviting gesture to the judges. 

The music starts, a sassy piano, drum and sax adaption of one of the k-pop songs he’d happen to find online while browsing his social media accounts online. Victor whips his arms out and cocks his head in a coy manner and sends a flirtatious smile. 

Skating backwards rapidly comes easily in comparison to the following triple toe, double axel, double axel that follow. 

He had found the song paired with one of his more risque skating programs, the fan’s skilfull editing skills allowing the beat of the song to sync relatively well with the original routine. Yakov wouldn’t actually allow him to use the original performance, stating that ‘the lyrics would detract from the performance’. Victor had called bull but Yakov wouldn’t budge unless he found an alternative.

He bets that if he were to look over towards his coach, he’d find a vein or two bulging on the older man’s forehead. Ah, Yakov had always been a goner for the loopholes in his arguments.

He lowers himself into a cannonball, smoothly transitioning to a layback spin as the sax blares and smoothly flows into the tinkling jaunty notes of a piano.

His breathing is growing heavy, heaving breaths as the effort of lifting his entire upper body rests on his core muscles. Victor makes a private note to himself to work on his abdominal muscles and takes a quick breath to steady his slightly sloppy steps into something presentable to the judge’s table coming closer and closer. 

There’s a faint caress on the plane of his pectoral and Victor can care less for his facial expressions in front of the grading boards full of old farts as the rapid shaking of the flower petals upon his chest changes to an encouraging warmth. He’s grinning too hard to care now, facial muscles straining so hard that he’s more likely to pull a muscle within his face smiling than skating. 

He’s always had to deal with the constant irritated shaking of the flower petals of his soulmate, sending back waves of encouraging warmth and watching the agitated petals calm from their movements but had never received any form of encouragement of from his soulmate until now.

The second half of his program begins as the beat of the drums abruptly stops and the sax screams.

The warmth he feels is comparable to flying. Knowing that his soulmate is watching, comforting him, Victor won’t-can’t fall.

 

* * *

 

Yuuri is pretty sure his soulmate will hate him if they don’t already.

For eight years his soulmate has had to deal with his shit. All of it.

He gets nervous too quickly, and can consistently feel the petals on his back shaking up a storm from his tumultuous thoughts alone. The anxiety never quite gets to him because there’s always an almost immediate response of comforting warmth extruding from the base of his spine. Let it be known that he’s quite(read  _ ridiculously _ )  grateful for the constant form of support from his absent soulmate. 

The problem is, Yuuri seems to always need to receive some form of reassurance while never giving any of the warm, comforting support back. He feels like some sort of parasite-like the leech that managed to cling onto his sister while they were exploring or a helpless little baby cuckoo bird taking over another bird’s life.

So even in the middle of the night, when he begins to feels even the slightest bit of hesitation or fright indicated by the sudden phantom itch on his back, he definitely over does it with the supportive feelings.

It’s somewhat like an mental exercise, thinking of all the times that he’s been comforted and sending back a wave of heat so strong that it feels like doing a cannonball into the hot center of the onsen waters.

Yuuri starts to feel anxious after a minute or so of no response before feeling the patch of skin on his back practically vibrate. A grin turns up on his face, and he’s able to fall asleep without the constant anxiety that chases at his heels from going to school.

* * *

 

Victor skates to the kiss&cry in a euphoric haze of pain and joy. On one hand, he’s pretty sure he’s got first-degree burns on his chest because his skating costume is chafing against his chest in a way that actually stings, on the the other hand he’s ecstatic! Best junior grand prix score his ass! Take that Uno!

The great white flower on his chest isn’t shaking, but rather swaying, petals folded into a neat bud shape in sleep while the blue irises tremble in elation.

He has hairs in his mouth, and he’s pretty sure that some of the closer spectators can pick up on how he’s soaked through the fabric of his outfit, but all of his fucks fly away as his scores are announced. Screw decorum! Victor leaps to his feet with a strangled noise of excitement and takes his skate guards off before throwing them at one of the cameras he sees.

Yakov calls him a moron and tells him to put on his jacket before he freezes and because he’s a little shit-Victor hears but purposefully makes motions to take off his skating costume and strip into his under armour (he’d gotten their offer of sponsorship earlier that year!) in front of the cameras. 

“I’m Russian! I’m never cold!”

.

.

He ends up with a nasty cold and has to talk in a nasally voice during the GPF banquets till his voice roughens for interviews and amounts a mountain of tissues before the reporters are done with their questions. Victor purposefully does not look in Yakov’s direction because he knows he’ll see him smirking.

**Author's Note:**

> 1/3/17: EDIT  
> changed a word and changed the position of the first line.
> 
> NOT TO FEAR I WILL UPDATE TOMORROW! I SWEAR


End file.
